


take you apart, put you back together

by celebreultimaverba



Category: Critical Role (Web Series)
Genre: Aasimar Body Descriptions, Beau dies but she comes back, Beau finds out about zuala, Cunnilingus, Developing Relationship, Explicit Consent, F/F, Magical Gender-Affirming Therapy, Making Love, Trans Female Character, Yasha's a Sap
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-21
Updated: 2019-02-21
Packaged: 2019-11-01 21:10:32
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,106
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17874905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/celebreultimaverba/pseuds/celebreultimaverba
Summary: Beau finds out.”Next time,” she’s promising, “I’ll fuck you. I’ll have your legs up on my shoulders and I’ll eat you out until you’re shaking, and then I’ll wring a few more out of you. I’ll call you mean names if you want, I’ll put on those gauntlets and pin you to the bed, and I’ll fuck you.””And this time?” Beau hates that she sounds nervous.”This time, Beau,” Yasha says, leaning in. “This time, I’m going to do something you haven’t done before. I’m going to make love to you.”





	take you apart, put you back together

_A wife,_ Beau learns too late. _A wife. Married._

It never meant off-limits before. Stupid, unnecessary little legal ceremony, good for trapping two people together to make everyone around them miserable, and not much more. A challenge, Beau always thought, if anything.

Now, though. Now, now, now. _A wife. Married. Gods, she was probably in love. A wife._

 _A wife,_ her heart beats, dropping Yasha’s gaze when she offers her hand to help Beau up after a fight.

 _Married,_ it tells her, standing still and silent at an unmarked grave as Yasha kneels in front of it with a book of pressed flowers.

 _In love, in love, in love,_ through her veins, choking her throat when Yasha smiles at her, stumbling her feet when she shows up after a few weeks, unexpectedly, tripping her tongue when she thinks Yasha is flirting.

She kisses Yasha in the forests outside Kamordah, tongue tasting blood and angelic healing surging through her veins bringing her back from blackness and the feeling of numbness in her fingertips.

(She won’t think about it too much.)

A raven caws in the silence that is Beau trying to convince herself to apologize for something that she liked as much as she liked that.

Yasha kisses her back.

 _In love, in love,_ says Beau’s racing heartbeat, quick from returned consciousness and _not_ the fact that Yasha’s so obviously worried about her.

She doesn’t talk about it after.

Caleb tells her to, of course, and Nott, when he tells _her,_ and Jester refuses Beau’s offer to try and slap the feelings out of her, but she just calls Caleb a hypocrite and shrugs at Nott’s advice and slaps herself, instead.

It does not work.

Yasha’s the one to talk about it, eventually, pinning her against the wall of the tavern because she hasn’t been able to trick Beau into a spar since the kiss. Beau tries to get out of her grip, but knows it’s futile at best, the gauntlets on Yasha’s wrists holding her with a strength that blooms heat low in Beau’s gut that she resolutely ignores.

“Beau,” Yasha says, and she sounds on the edge of an anger that makes Beau’s chest ache. “You’re avoiding me.”

“Nope,” Beau replies, trying to push her off, still. Usually Yasha at least humors her, when they spar, but Yasha’s not taking it, this time.

The denial makes Yasha pause, exhaling a breath through her teeth. “You are,” she says again, “and I would like to know why.”

Beau curses, gives up her struggling, and frowns, looking Yasha over and considering the merits of lying to her.

There aren’t many. “You’re married,” she says, flatly. “I shouldn’t have kissed you.”

Yasha’s grip loosens, though Beau doesn’t try to get away. “Beau,” she says, soft and kind, enough so to make Beau look away in angry embarrassment.

It’d be easier if this rejection came with rage, if Yasha punched her in the stomach like Beau was expecting back in Kamordah, kicked her down so she wouldn’t want to get up again until Yasha was gone. It’s what Beau’s expecting, it’s the kind of thing that she can deal with, because kind rejection’s gonna _hurt—_

“Can I kiss you again?”

For half a second, Beau is convinced that _she_ was the one who said it, not Yasha. But it _was_ Yasha, letting Beau go completely and waiting for a rejection that’s gonna come in the form of Beau walking away, back to the Mighty Nein so the group gels this whole stupid interaction into something less weird.

Beau nods, and Yasha tastes a lot less like blood this time around.

* * *

It’s the slowest Beau’s ever bothered to go, with a girl. She’s back to the joking flirting, because Yasha thinks it’s funny, and she steals kisses sometimes, when they’re not around other people and she’s feeling brave.

She’s gotten better, around the Nein, expects rejection less, is surprised rather than resigned to people finding her unpleasant, but there’s still a lot of threads weaved into this that Beau doesn’t quite know how to unravel, and she’s not about to push Yasha into doing it for her. For all of Beau’s posturing and fucking things up, she has her people, and Yasha’s one of them. Beau is no longer _trying_ to fuck up her people.

So.

That doesn’t last.

She was lying dead, an hour and a half ago, and that’s, like, _fine,_ except it took two tries to get her back, and she’s rattled, and they’re all rattled, and they all keep looking at her like she’s breakable and they’re all remembering Molly, and Beau keeps catching Yasha staring and not speaking, and she’s getting fucking tired of it.

“Yasha,” she says, voice ruined because she feels like she wants to sleep for a year, and the barbarian follows her up the stairs and lies down with her and Beau does sleep like that, Yasha’s head on her chest listening to her heartbeat. She wakes up late the next morning, Yasha’s still there, and Beau feels a little less like shit.

She kisses her.

Yasha kisses back with an enthusiasm that leaves Beau breathless and can only come from a woman who’s elated that she hasn’t lost someone else, and Beau practically mewls with it, because she died yesterday and this is the most alive she’s felt since.

She kisses her until Yasha crawls on top of her and then she pushes up Yasha’s shirt and fists her other hand in Yasha’s hair, and finally, _finally,_ breaks, gasps, “Fuck me,” and kisses Yasha again, hard and desperate.

Yasha’s thumbs are circling Beau’s hipbones, gentle and appreciative, when she pulls away. Yasha’s hands on her hips are _very_ distracting, but Beau still manages to pay attention to her mouth. Mostly because she wants to kiss it again, but also because of the things she’s saying.

”Next time,” she’s promising, “I’ll fuck you. I’ll have your legs up on my shoulders and I’ll eat you out until you’re shaking, and then I’ll wring a few more out of you. I’ll call you mean names if you want, I’ll put on those gauntlets and pin you to the bed, and I’ll fuck you.”

”And this time?” Beau hates that she sounds nervous.

”This time, Beau,” Yasha says, leaning in. “This time, I’m going to do something you haven’t done before. I’m going to make love to you.”

Beau feels like she’s been punched in the stomach, looks down both to avoid Yasha’s eyes and to double check that that hasn’t happened. It hasn’t—Beau’s midriff is just as exposed as ever, skin less tender than it should be considering the claw marks that were in it yesterday.

Yasha’s fingers dip underneath her chin to make Beau look back up at her, and Beau swallows, thick and choked. “Yeah,” she manages. “Yeah, okay.”

Yasha smiles, Beau’s heart skips a beat, and then Yasha kisses her, with the same amount of enthusiasm. Beau doesn’t respond in the same way, with the same desperation, because she figures that they’ve kind of got all the time in the world, and she just died, and if Yasha hates it and wants to leave in the middle of it because Beau’s too invested, it’ll, like, be fine. Beau’s already died, and nothing could be worse.

There’s a lot that’s better, though, because Yasha’s lips are a little harder than a normal human, skin half as hard and white as marble. She’s unlike anyone Beau’s ever kissed before, and feelings have nothing to do with it. Though, feelings—and Beau will never admit it—don’t exactly make the experience _worse._ And Yasha’s hands, cool and stupid-sure, getting fabric out of her way with the same determination she takes apart enemies in battle. Beau forgets, for a second or two, that she’s meant to be getting into it, too, probably supposed to be returning the favor.

Her fingers feel weak when she moves to start unbuckling Yasha’s belt—side effect of dying, Cad said, but why in the _hell_ did Beau let Yasha sleep with her last night without taking her fucking _belts_ off.

Yasha lets her undo the belts, and the cords tied around her waist, then pushes Beau’s hands aside, gently, when Beau starts on the laced-up tunic. “You’re slow,” she tells her, and Beau works through enough of the residual feeling from being told the words “making love” unironically to glare up at Yasha.

Yasha laughs at it, dropping down to press a half-apologetic kiss to Beau’s lips. “You’re slow, and it’s complicated, and I’d rather have you naked, first,” she continues.

“Alright,” Beau replies, settling down a bit. “I don’t think I can complain.”

“I don’t think you want to,” Yasha replies, pulling down the waistband of the pants that Beau hadn’t bothered to take off last night. She pulls Beau down the bed a little with the motion, and then tugs Beau back up like it’s nothing, and Beau remembers, suddenly, that before she had feelings about Yasha, she wanted Yasha to throw her over her shoulder and make her sing louder than the circus weirdos. She still wants that.

“You’re right,” she says, making Yasha laugh. It could be the hormones or the recent trip to unbeing, but it’s probably one of the prettiest things Beau’s ever heard.

“Always am, about these things.”

“Well, c’mon, then, show me. What am I missing? How are you _not_ going to fuck me?” Beau’s kind of goading Yasha, now, and the glint in Yasha’s eyes tells her that Yasha is very aware of that.

She imagines she can taste Yasha’s smile on her lips when she leans down.

And Yasha just… keeps kissing her. Beau tries to get a hand up her tunic again, but Yasha takes it, pins it to the bed, and intertwines their fingers. She allows Beau’s hand in her hair, but doesn’t— doesn’t _go._ She _lingers,_ which is _fine_ but Beau relaxes into kissing that lasts longer than losing her virginity did.

It’s. Nice.

She’s almost surprised when Yasha moves her hand, sliding up from Beau’s side to trace calloused fingers over the skin of her stomach, up her breastbone and collarbone, then down to circle a nipple, making Beau squirm a little with the slow, _slow_ heat pooling in her gut anew.

Yasha doesn’t let go of her hand, just adjusts a little to hold herself up without needing the support of an arm or elbow, and if not for the kissing and Yasha’s tunic, Beau would sneak a look down to see Yasha’s stomach tensed to keep her leaned over like that. But she’s seen Yasha’s muscles enough—or, enough to be able to imagine it—so she’ll continue kissing, almost surprised when Yasha moves from her lips to her jaw.

Beau doesn’t know what to do with herself, at that. Kissing Yasha is pretty easy—Yasha’s good at it, makes it easy to get lost in the slide of their lips together, sucking her top lip a bit before trying a nip or two and enjoying the feeling of Yasha’s mouth against her stretching into a smile. But without Yasha trying to kiss her, Beau can’t… _do_ much. She’s got a hand in Yasha’s and a hand in her hair, but tugging her back up to Beau’s lips seems weird—and she _wants_ Yasha’s lips on her neck—and she’s half-convinced that Yasha will take her other hand out of commision, truly pin Beau’s arms down, if Beau tries too much beyond a light grip on her hair.

And while being pinned to the bed by Yasha _isn’t_ the worst thing in the world, Beau doesn’t think she wants to do that. Fucked by Yasha? Yes. _Making love_ to Yasha?

Embarrassing, but. It _sounds_ nicer.

Beau’s already made the decision. She’s not going to double back on that.

She keeps her hand in Yasha’s hair and tries her best to focus on her lips again, instead of her lack of surety in this whole situation. Beau’s not a _passive_ person. At least getting pinned feels like _something._

So she… reacts? She gives Yasha clues when she likes something, a tiny noise deep in the back of her throat when she likes wherever Yasha is kissing—she changes that into a small change in breathing as soon as she figures out that she kind of just likes _Yasha kissing_ and doesn’t want to be making _that_ much noise when Yasha isn’t even _thinking_ about being in between her legs, yet. She tightens her hand in Yasha’s hair and relishes in the quiet murmur of contentment that she’s given for it.

Yasha gets down her neck to her tits and Beau thinks she could meditate here.

Well, at least until Yasha nips at the skin there and settles down to suck a dark hickey right off of the valley of Beau’s breastbone, making her way to where her fingers have been idly toying with Beau’s chest for the past… however long. If not for how _good_ that fucking feels, Beau would seriously be considering this new method of meditation. It’s _definitely_ been more than ten minutes, which has in the past been Beau’s upper limit.

But it feels _really_ fucking good, so Beau doesn’t bother to fuck that up with something she _barely_ does willingly.

The noise Beau makes when Yasha _bites_ is loud and surprised, coaxed into a relaxed little state of mind with all the soft touching and kissing going on. Yasha laughs at it, voice rougher than it was, and Beau pulls on her hair, finally, to tug her up for another kiss, just for that.

Yasha lets her, of course, has to _let_ her because with all the strength wired up in her body, even with those gauntlets off, Beau’s not liable to _move_ Yasha without Yasha letting her do so.

Beau needs to stop remembering that fact, because she doesn’t think they’re even _close_ to getting to the point where Beau can be that horny.

She instead focuses on Yasha’s mouth. She’s still enthusiastic, and Beau realizes with a thrum of something like love that what she’s feeling against her mouth and against her body is Yasha’s _joy._ It’s practically sparking against her skin every time Yasha touches her, like the Stormlord is blessing the fact that Beau’s gonna go downstairs for brunch with hickies all up her torso.

She almost snickers at the thought before she breaks the kiss, and the softness in Yasha’s smile sobers her up.

Beau’s never been a religious gal, but she prays, right there, overearnest, wordless gratitude, to whoever or whatever brought this woman right back to her, keeps bringing her back every time.

The static electricity clinging to her hair when she pushes herself up to kiss Yasha again feels less like a sign and more like a physical inevitability, but it makes her grin against Yasha’s lips anyway.

She moves to kiss at Yasha’s throat, now, deciding she should be a more active participant in this whole thing. She doesn’t want to be pinned down by Yasha, at least not yet, because she really hasn’t had a chance to touch her, and she _wants_ to. Gods, she wants to.

Yasha lets her, and Beau tells herself she’s just being, like, a person, when she moves her hands over Yasha’s stomach, appreciating the muscle underneath. Cold and too-hard and too-smooth, her skin feels weird against Beau’s fingertips, but she’d rather feel it than not. She’s got all day(?) to get used to the feeling of it, and she’s all too willing to become more comfortable with Yasha’s skin than she’s ever been with her own.

Yasha seems happy to let her touch, this time, leaning her head back and brushing her matted hair back over her shoulders, so Beau doesn’t get any in her mouth, and Beau hums in gratitude before sucking a dark mark into Yasha’s throat. She doesn’t stop her, so Beau moves to another spot of her neck, sucks another mark. Bruises always show up strange and alien on Yasha’s skin, much brighter red than most bruises Beau has ever gotten, smaller than bruises from knuckles or the blunt of a blade. Much more pleasurable to get, too, if the quiet noise Yasha makes when Beau moves to give her the bruises is any indication.

It thrills through Beau, that noise, and she nips a bit at Yasha’s throat before pulling away again. Yasha grins, and Beau mimics it, cheekily. “I’m allowed to touch, now?”

“Always were,” Yasha replies.

They’ve talked about this, stilted and awkward, because apparently Beau is the type of woman who _talks,_ now. Beau _wasn’t_ always welcome, not really, but she certainly is _now,_ and that’s good enough for the both of them. So Beau doesn’t call Yasha out for the lie. It doesn’t really matter.

Instead, she kisses her, because she’s decided to be a sap about this, fuck it, and puts her hands up Yasha’s tunic one more time, much to both her and Yasha’s apparently shared delight. Yasha doesn’t stop her, this time, which is wonderful. Beau doesn’t think that she’s one for patience, despite the fact that this is a nice thing to be patient for. Beau’s only human. Patience is fun and whatever, but also, between patience and Yasha getting naked?

There’s no contest.

Yasha pushes Beau’s hands away so she can finish getting her tunic off, and Beau obliges with none too little reluctance, though she makes sure to catalogue Yasha’s movements for next time, so she can do it instead. It is _not_ too complicated for Beau to figure out.

(She soothes the voice in her head that doubts there will be a next time with looking up at Yasha and remembering the phrase “making love.” It sounds a lot sillier in her head than it did coming from Yasha’s lips, but her heart skips a beat anyway.)

(Gods, she’s a sap.)

It’s not the first time Yasha’s been naked around Beau, not even the first time Beau has _stared_ at Yasha being naked, but it’s the first time Beau’s done any extended looking since Yasha had kind of tapped her fingers against her thigh that night in Xhorhas, sighed, and admitted, “I want to stay for a few more days. I want to see my wife.”

Yasha’s naked body, though, remains a nice fucking sight. She’s all strength and definition, whatever elegance that her angelic blood gives her lending her the ab and bicep definition of every old, nude statue that Beau has ever seen in nice museums. But, _fuck,_ is Yasha better than any shitty naked old man.

Beau does not say this out loud. Fjord’s lessons on niceties have been impressed upon her, a little. It would not sound like a compliment.

Instead, Beau compliments her by getting her hands on her, calloused hands catching on nothing, too-smooth skin providing an easy slide up Yasha’s side to her tits, and Beau thumbs at Yasha’s nipples, half-marvelling at the soft pink that seems almost too pretty on her. But that’s stupid—Yasha’s fucking lovely, lips parted and lip paint smudged on her own chin and probably Beau’s, the slightest flush showing up on her overpale skin. Pink is a fucking _perfect_ color on Yasha, now that Beau’s seeing her properly.

Pink, dusted over her cheeks. Pink, flushed down her neck. Pink, pooling in the marks that Beau has already sucked into her neck. Pink, hardening under Beau’s gentle fingertips as Beau rolls a nipple underneath them. And pink, under the fingertips of Beau’s other hand as her legs spread just enough for Beau to slip two fingers between them, drawing even gentler fingertips through slick that Beau immediately wants under her tongue.

Yasha makes a noise that makes Beau reconsider her stance on blue being her favorite color.

Beau pulls Yasha back in for a proper kiss against her (pink, pink, pink) lips, before dropping her head to suck another mark into Yasha’s neck as she circles her fingers over the bundle of nerves that doesn’t tend to be too different with at least most of the races that Beau’s slept with. Angel people, check, because Yasha gives Beau a full-body shiver when she finds it, and a low little groan when Beau _presses,_ a little high on the power of having Yasha pressed against her like this, being allowed to touch again. 

“Wasn’t I meant to be touching _you?”_ Yasha asks, but it’s not an accusation.

Beau hums, noncommital, then replies, “You said you were gonna make love to me. Can’t I do the same for you?”

Yasha bites her lip. “Yeah,” she says, voice soft. Beau hears her own quiet happiness at Yasha using that term reflected in Yasha’s voice, now. Her eyes flick up to meet Beau’s, and the both of them smile. “You definitely wouldn’t be able to pin me down and fuck me like I promised you, though,” she teases.

“With those gauntlets, I could,” Beau shoots back.

Yasha’s eyebrow raises. “You’d have to get them off me, first.”

Beau feels a bit of competitive energy spark up her spine, a potential well of arousing conversation that she knows they’re not gonna get into right now. The energy of it is there, though, along with Yasha’s teasing smile and the thrum of energy between them.

Death apparently makes Beau mad horny. Doesn’t matter if it’s Molly’s or her own, it looks like.

Beau shakes that thought out of her head very quickly. _Yasha, Yasha, Yasha._

It works very well, that line of thought, and Beau rides it back to kissing Yasha again, fingers circling her clit, drinking in the noises she makes like shitty booze. Like wine finer than anything Beau skimmed to sell herself. Like, shit, like ambrosia or whatever, god juice, worship in the form of sucking on Yasha’s lower lip when she moans.

Beau would be _twice_ as religious as Cad and Jester _combined_ if getting on her knees implied shit like this.

She’s got a different goddess to worship tonight, though, and Yasha doesn’t protest it when Beau’s mouth travels, oh so slow, down the pink of her neck to the pink of her nipples to her stomach, hipbones, thighs, finally burying her nose in the thick, pale hair above her cunt—there’s gotta be a more romantic word for it—and licks her way over the wetness she’s wanted to taste since day fucking one.

Yasha _whines._ It goes straight to Beau’s head, worship abandoned for enthusiasm, a pace established to get Yasha to whine like that again as soon as fucking possible.

Yasha pushes her head away after less than thirty seconds. “Too fast,” she tells Beau, legs drawing together even with Beau’s shoulders still between them, like she’s trying to protect herself.

Beau’s fucked enough women to not take criticism like this to heart. It’s better, she knows, to be told what Yasha doesn’t like, so she doesn’t fuck this whole thing up before they’ve even really gotten a chance to get started.

They’ve definitely missed breakfast. Sunlight isn’t even streaming into the room anymore, and Beau’s no Caleb, but she knows that it means the sun must be overhead, by now.

Luckily, she still has something to eat, breakfast or no.

Well, hopefully. She nods in understanding. “I’ll go slower. You still good?”

Yasha nods, and Beau reaches up to take her hand to squeeze before lowering her head back down to continue, slower this time.

Yasha doesn’t let go of her hand.

She keeps not letting go, too.

Taking Yasha apart is a slow process. Beau’s not a slow person. Beau has only spent this much time with hookups in the past because they’ve both accidentally fallen asleep. They’re both awake, though, and though Beau is still feeling the lingering effects of her death weighing heavy on her shoulders, she’s still got a familiar burn under her skin. It’s the same one that makes it half-impossible to meditate, the same one that got Beau to start trekking across the Empire, the same one that lets her punch dumb monsters in the face. Yasha soothes that burn, though, an eye of a hurricane or some poetic shit like that, and Beau could be patient with this for hours more, happily nudging Yasha up to a peak high as she cares to go, only to be right there when she falls.

But Beau’s not a sap, so, like, instead of _saying_ that, Beau chows the fuck down.

Slowly.

She may have done that anyway, though, because it’s very, very rewarding, when Yasha finally _does_ fall, her hand squeezing Beau’s and her mouth gasping out a few words that sound like a song. Beau recognizes the Celestial, and has never wanted to learn a language more desperately than in that exact moment.

(She tries to file away the sounds. Maybe Caleb can recognize them as words, tell her what they mean.)

She gives Yasha’s clit one last, affectionate kiss, making Yasha rumble out a quiet laugh and pull Beau up by the hair she’d been holding onto. Beau goes, willingly, and kind of grimaces when Yasha tilts her chin up to wipe her mouth and chin off. “I was saving that for later,” she jokes.

“I wanted to kiss you again,” Yasha replies.

Beau grins. The rush that she got out of Yasha’s orgasm feels like she’s gotten an afterglow, too, and so she feels a little justified in the way her hormones are acting. “Don’t like how pussy tastes?”

Yasha shakes her head, returns Beau’s smile. “Not my own. You taste better.”

Beau kisses her again.

Yasha seems grateful for it, making a little “mmp” noise and keeping her lips closed for a few seconds, forcing Beau into kissing sweeter than she was originally planning. Beau finds that she doesn’t mind too much, patient enough for this. Yasha likes going slow? Beau can go slow, too. She’s getting _really_ good at it, too.

Her evidence: Yasha eventually coaxing her mouth open, after a few minutes, Beau’s heart no longer racing in her chest, wordless communication coming in the form of Yasha rolling them over, then a hand splayed over Beau’s stomach.

“Can I?” Yasha asks, and Beau nods.

It’s weird, to no longer have a dick between her legs. Almost not worth the awkwardness of coming to Caleb after he made Nott a halfling once again. _Definitely_ not worth having to go through the process of figuring out the physical details of it with him.

Yasha’s fingers slide in between Beau’s legs, then, though, and it’s a _slide_ rather than a stroke, and Beau’s legs twitch, lighting up half the nerves in her body with a single, gentle touch. Beau reconsiders her stance on her new cunt immediately. With Yasha touching it, it’s suddenly worth every awkward conversation and then some.

“Want me to go slow?” Yasha asks.

Beau nods. “This is new.”

“Oh, right,” Yasha says, nodding a bit. “I’ll be gentle, then. You’re probably sensitive.”

“Don’t be _too_ gentle,” Beau tells her. “This is a first. Break ‘er in, Yasha.”

Yasha snorts. It’s the most gratifying sound Beau’s ever heard. “Your wish is my command, but I’m still gonna be gentle.”

Beau’s groan turns into a little more of a sigh when Yasha presses on her clit as she does it, and she twitches again. It feels different, not _bad_ or _better,_ necessarily, but it’s so much… _more,_ now that Yasha’s touching her. Beau doesn’t know if it’s her cunt’s fault or Yasha’s, but it’s still… 

“Good?”

 _“Yeah,”_ Beau replies, voice a little choked.

“Good.”

Yasha keeps her touch gentle. Gentler than what Beau would do with herself, but it’s fine. It’s good, actually, because this whole thing is capital I _Intense,_ and if Yasha was rougher, Beau might knee her in the groin.

She still might do that, but it would be an accident.

Yasha kisses her again. Beau wraps her arms around her neck, gets a demanding hand in her hair again, and trails her fingers up Yasha’s upper back, like maybe she won’t notice that Beau only wants to touch more of her skin if Beau is also fisting her hand in the hair at the back of her head. She has no idea if it works or not, because after that, she focuses pretty fully on two things, the most important things in the world, Yasha’s lips and Yasha’s fingers.

She moans when Yasha adjusts her fingers a bit and sends what _feels_ like it has to be divine magic up her spine, but what’s probably just Yasha rubbing her clit more directly. She then amends her list of the most important things in the world. It’s Yasha. It’s just Yasha.

(Yasha’s lips and fingers are still very important, though.)

She lets herself be quiet save for noise, for a little while, breath and moans against hard nonhuman _perfect_ lips, all reaction and relaxation and alive-again motion against Yasha, submitting herself to whatever Yasha wants of her.

Which is, after a length of time Beau doesn’t bother determining, for her to fall the fuck apart.

Beau’s leg is hooked up around Yasha’s hip at this point, pressing into Yasha’s fingers again, hand on her back now gripping desperately onto her upper arm.

“You’re close, Beau?” Yasha asks, but it doesn’t really sound like a _question_ so much as a _confirmation_ when she asks it.

Beau makes a sound that’s probably a confirmation, because Yasha hums and continues, and as she’s saying, “You’re gorgeous,” Beau jerks, and—comes?

She comes. It’s a lot more drawn out because Yasha doesn’t stop touching, and it’s a wave rather than a peak, but she comes in something like marvel, and pushes Yasha’s hand away when she feels like she and her cunt have had enough.

She proceeds to bury her face in Yasha’s shoulder and cling. It’s really very embarrassing, but she makes allowances for herself, because she just “made love” for the first time.

It did feel different. Better. Yasha was involved.

Was she missing out on that this _whole time?_

“How are you feeling?” Yasha asks.

“I’m pretty sure I saw _your_ god,” Beau mutters.

She feels Yasha laugh against her, wipe slick off on Beau’s thigh, and wrap her arms around Beau. “We should go eat.”

“No, I just did,” Beau protests. “Let me stay like this for a second.”

Yasha kisses her forehead. Shifts so they’re both on their sides. “Okay,” she agrees. “Just like this.”


End file.
